Clean Break
by starspatter
Summary: Through the help of an unlikely hero, Tim makes his choice.


*dusts off this account*

Hello readers, it's been a while.

I haven't had inspiration/opportunity to write for years, but last summer I surprisingly fell for the story of Tim Drake from BTAS. Having sat down to watch the series/RotJ for the first time (as well as read the related tie-in comics), I wanted to explore more of what happened during that period after the tragedy - even if I'm really late to the Dark Knight train.

There are a number of ideas I want to get across, so this is only the first in a series of fics I've been working on surrounding the film. Expect more installments from different perspectives in the future - although they may or not connect to each other. For now at least, I just wanted to give this poor boy the happy ending he deserves.

(Plus Alfred is amazing and needs more love.)

Anyway, here goes. Please pardon any mistakes, as again I'm pretty new to this fandom.

* * *

Tim learned to clean.

When he was lucid enough to comprehend his surroundings and walk around the mansion without assistance, he began to follow Alfred around like a shadow, clinging to his every movement. He was still far from ready to face going back to school, and with nothing to do between waiting for sessions with Dr. Thompkins he found himself growing increasingly bored and restless. Trying to watch T.V. or play games gave him a headache, and more often than not the bright colors and graphic violence triggered a relapse episode. Cartoons no longer amused but abused his fragile psyche.

He rarely saw Bruce anymore either. Whenever the old man wasn't out making public appearances as billionaire Wayne, upon return he disappeared straight into that section of the manor underground Tim would sooner forget existed. Treating each other as ghosts, one retreated into darkness while the other struggled towards the light.

Barbara came to visit sometimes, but she always regarded him with little sideways glances and nervous smiles of apology. It made him queasy, uneasy to be around. It felt like she needed therapy and constant reassurance more than he did. Dick would also call to check in on a regular basis, but they both avoided talking to Bruce. None of them spoke to each other ever since that fight after the first month Dick came back to Gotham. The tension mounting between them only made Tim more agitated. Even though he gleaned the vague unsavory details of what happened (at least as much as his addled adolescent brain could grasp: betrayal, a baby lost in the alley, dead and broken hearts – his "brother" in everything but blood striking to sanctuary in Blüdhaven and never looking back), he couldn't help attributing fault to himself. The reason he was out on patrol alone that night was because Batman and Batgirl were "busy" after all…

So that left him alone in a large empty house most of the day, with no one but the butler for company. It wasn't all bad though, since Alfred never showed him pity or penance, merely went about his business as usual. The clockwork consistency was a comfort, a grounded counterforce to the rest of the world crumbling around him, his sanity and "family" falling apart. The fact there was one thing he could count on always staying constant when everything else had changed made the circumstances bearable – if barely.

For the most part, the elderly gentleman didn't let on to being studied so intently by a silent spectator. Whether he consciously realized it or not, Tim's coaching still endured in terms of stealth as he tiptoed after Alfred from coverage of one furnishing to the next, as if a bird tracking its prey. Something in him sensed his target was well aware of the ruse, but the charade continued until one day Alfred spoke up without shifting disposition:

"If you are going to stand behind that statue indefinitely, Master Timothy, may I suggest you lend a hand in giving it a good shine?"

He offered out a cloth, never taking his eyes off his task before him. He only detected, after a moment, the damp weight being lifted shakily from his gloved fingers. With slow, careful movements the boy eagerly set to work, appreciative to finally have something to contribute again. As they completed the daily chores together without exchanging words (except for when Alfred had to teach him how to handle particular items or correct Tim's technique), Alfred could see the young man glowing in a way he had not witnessed in a long time. It felt good to be useful, needed – even if it was in such small measures. Maintaining steady pace with a mentor – a partner. At the end Alfred would proclaim, "I believe that'll do. Well done, lad," and gradually the soft pat on Tim's back, shoulder, and ultimately head was permitted without receiving a cringe of involuntary terror.

Having a routine in Tim's life aided his recovery, an added structure of support. The repeated motions helped keep his mind off things: clowns and capes, killer smiles – his own leering back at him whenever he looked in the mirror – all clamoring for attention inside his skull. In a way, perhaps, it was a form of self-punishment as well. Sometimes he'd scrub until his knuckles were numb and white (like paint crawling over his skin), and he'd watch them bleed raw until they remind him of a bared grin. Alfred would come by to check on his progress only to find him huddled and shuddering on the floor. He'd gently pick the boy up and bandage his wounds, attending with the same care and focus as when he'd come back from a night on the town with Batman, covered in cuts and bruises but boasting with triumph over defeating the bad guy. He'd recommend Tim take off for the evening, but the youth would stubbornly shake his head, determined to finish the job.

No matter how much he tried to wash away his sins, he felt unclean, impure. Tainted by the Joker's touch even though according to multiple blood tests the toxin had at last cleared his system. To be declared physically "cured" only augmented the guilt that he could not move past the memory of what he'd done. A part of him was afraid, that he didn't just break under a madman's will, but let loose demons that came from deep within. The shocks and serums were merely a placebo that opened up a gate to the blackest pit of his soul.

" _People like us, we don't got no choice."_

His dad was right: He was always worthless, doomed to be a failure. This was what he was meant to _be_. Not just a petty thief, but a _murderer_. The son of scum who was simply showing his true colors.

…

" _You'll be okay, kid. You've got something special. Something I never had."_

He wasn't special; just some kid pretending to play a hero, who paid the price in a man's life and his family's pride. He _was_ the bad guy.

 _The first shot had been aimed for Batman's head._

 _He didn't know it would take two._

On these occasions, Alfred would insist he have a seat in the den and spot a cup with tea with him. He'd regale the boy with stories of his past, secrets of his own. Tim gawked in awe as the modest servant's yarns unraveled before him, revealing his history of service for the British Intelligence before the Waynes.

"No way. You were a _spy_?"

"Indeed I was. Mind, my duties consisted mostly of desk work and maintaining diplomatic relations, but I experienced my fair share of dangerous run-ins with terrorists."

He showed Tim the scars from interrogation attempts. Although they couldn't compare, the empathy was there.

"Following my leave of Her Majesty's Government, I took up my childhood passion of acting for a long period. Although I admit I was not very good at it."

"But… Why would you give it all up just to be a butler?"

"It was my father's dying will. To follow in his footsteps was not something I had dreamed of, initially, but I have grown accustomed to this lifestyle. It may not be as glamorous as the stage or defending one's nation, but it is a peaceful and comfortable one. Whilst a healthy dose of adventure is all well and good once in a while, there is no shame in wishing to lead an ordinary life."

Alfred surveyed the giant portrait commanding over the fireplace, describing a smiling man and woman who Tim knew from name only, yet their haunting presence dominated the entire room.

"Plus, I have had the pleasure and privilege to know some of Gotham's finest. The former Master Wayne was a doctor, and a good man. Mistress Martha was a philanthropist and devoted mother. Their son grew to be incredibly brave and strong-willed… As have his successors."

Tim swirled the liquid in his cup.

"I told Master Richard once, when he was considering quitting university to pursue his… 'other life' full-time… Even though I knew the theatre was not my calling, I found it quite difficult to leave behind."

The voice of Nightwing echoed in his mind. Distant, dissonant:

" _Seems to me you've still got some choosing to do."_

"We all make our choices in life, Master Timothy. Some of us choose to dress as a bat and defend the night. Others choose to support their loved ones during the day. No path one chooses is perfect, and may lead to mistakes that cost us something precious. Though we may heavily regret them, what matters most is the direction those mistakes drive us in." He took a sip before carrying on. "It is not my place to say what is right, but I am confident of this: Every person who has resided under this roof in this old valet's lifetime has more than deserved to be called a 'hero'."

Tim lingered on the porcelain rim before lifting his gaze to meet Alfred's.

"Every one," he agreed solemnly.

A slight beam parted through the cracks of the caretaker's lips, and he raised his drink to the compliment.

"Cheers, my boy."

–

With Leslie's reluctant approval – and Master Bruce's tacit acknowledgment – Tim was eventually allowed to accompany Alfred outside on shopping trips (provided he remain under _constant_ supervision). So as not to draw notice, and out of Tim's personal preference, they often forewent the limo and instead walked to their destination. Although the short excursions always left Tim exhausted afterwards, he enjoyed the fresh air and exercise, getting to see the city of Gotham again. It looked a lot more beautiful bathed in sunlight than he remembered. While he couldn't stand to be in a crowd or talk to anyone, sitting in the park and watching people go by became one of his favorite pastimes. Alfred always kept proximate, reclining against the resting with a pipe and bowler hat, clearly on his break. They'd buy extra bread along with the groceries to feed the pigeons while Alfred read the newspaper. (Tim tried his best to ignore the headlines; bold type broadcasts bewailing armed robbery and murder, another Arkham and/or Stonegate breakout, rumors and whispers wondering whatever happened to the Joker? Or for that matter, the Batman's sidekicks? Where were they to help clean up the crime infesting the streets?) Occasionally smaller birds would join the flock, including one with a red breast whose name Tim couldn't seem to remember off the bat but the sight of it made him sick and he was going to scream he was going to scream don't you'll make a scene oh God don't come closer shoot it shoot it _shoot it BANG HAHAHA_

A wrinkled hand soothed his, and Tim clutched it tightly until the breathing hysterics ceased. Folks stopped and stared at the sobbing mess on the bench, but Alfred draped his coat around Tim and waved them off, waiting for the hiccups to subside before hailing a taxi to take them home.

As weeks went on, Tim became better at controlling himself in communal spaces, conditioning himself to the everyday sights and sounds that all seemed so overwhelming now. There was one instance though, when they were crossing the sidewalk intersection (Tim striving to concentrate on counting each pallid line of pavement rather than the congestion), and a woman's shriek erupted as a purse snatcher suddenly shot by. Tim froze in complete shock, eyes wild with conflicted panic. Alfred held him close, quickly steering away to safety on the opposite bank. No one brought up the incident afterward, although Tim knew at that point he could never directly confront a situation like that again – with or without a costume.

…

A year passed, of making persistent progress until he was deemed "fully fit" to reenter society. Owing to Alfred's private tutelage and encouragement, he'd managed to catch up on the mountain of homework that he'd missed, and kept on top of the current curriculum so he wouldn't have to repeat.

There remained another issue, however.

No matter how much semblance of "normalcy" he regained, there was no going back to the way things were before: to swinging from rooftops, taking down villains, all the thrill and surge of satisfaction rescuing citizens of Gotham from impending doom. More than the adrenaline rush and excitement though, he missed teamwork and trust. There would be no more friendly sparring matches, clever jibes and high-fives… sharing pancakes on the patio. As much as Alfred assured him he was always welcome as a member of the household, Tim realized there was nothing left for him here. No reason for him to stay and be a burden anymore, when his inhabitance only forced strained interaction between the people he cared about.

Case in point: When he gathered the courage to inform Bruce of his decision, he had to arrange a meeting through Alfred, circumventing the walls of stone and silence that separated them. They were practically strangers to each other now, and from the way the sleepless husk treaded cautiously upstairs it was like he was an alien in his own home. The cave had become his true habitat. Upon hearing what his ward had to say he simply responded with "I see," and agreed to make the sufficient arrangements. Before Tim left the room though, Bruce cleared his throat.

"Alfred tells me you've been helping him tidy up around here."

He must have observed the compulsive coping mechanism from the start (there were security camera feeds in the Batcave after all), but no mention had been made about it before now. Tim couldn't remember the last time they'd actually had a real conversation, face-to-face.

"You didn't need to take on that responsibility. …I shouldn't have let you."

Tim turned, taking in the withered sight of his once-seemingly invincible idol. Minus the mask, there belied a side more human and humble at this moment than Tim had thought possible. It wasn't much, but he discerned what it meant.

"I volunteered." He swallowed pretense. "It… It made me feel better about myself. Helping others out, I mean."

Bruce nodded absently, although he appeared unconvinced. He scanned the spotless interior before concluding:

"…The place looks nice. Thank you."

It was enough, and all he – both of them – needed to hear.

–

"He's really not coming to say goodbye, is he?"

As Alfred finished loading the last of Tim's luggage in the car, he closed the trunk and answered without hesitation.

"I'm sure Master Bruce wishes you all the best, Master Tim. As do I."

"Yeah. I know."

"He did ask to give you this."

Alfred approached, subtly extending a small case. Tim opened it to glimpse a familiar object, sleek and black and shaped like a bat. Although a reflex in him urged to recoil, he ran his digits along the sharp edge, caressing the recollection of stumbling upon the Batarang for the first time. It had been his "buddy", a companion – champion symbol of faith and justice long before he met the owner in flesh. A sign that storm and stress would come to pass, that things could be better someday. He could be better, by believing in someone who was.

He used to sleep with it beside his pillow, to keep bad dreams and desires at bay. Now it was a source of nightmares.

 _The monster was awake and laughing, hiding inside his head, not under the bed._

Yet, he didn't have the will to deny the gift. He shut the lid, and could feel tears burning behind his.

"Thanks, Alfred." He embraced without warning, burying his face in his old friend's jacket. "And tell Bruce 'thank you' too. For everything."

Alfred warmly reciprocated the gesture, promising he would do so. Before his ride departed, Tim craned his neck and waved with a faintly awkward smile through the rear window. It reminded Alfred of his first encounter with the scrappy stowaway, sans an unconscious Batman in the passenger seat. Like magic, an abandoned urchin washed up from the sea one night, as if to fill a lonely void in Master Dick's absence. Just as before, Master Bruce took him under his wing, polishing to reveal the precious pearl underneath (despite deriving from a "bad oyster"). He may have lacked the grace and natural talent of his predecessor, but possessed a grit and wit and eager willingness to learn, to perform. The brighter he shone, the easier it became to forget the darkness.

…Alas, all too soon, a child's fairytale had turned to pure horror. Pages of potential were ripped – wings clipped – from the rising star's spine, poisoned by an evil clown prince's pen. His spell of sabotage left stains that could never be erased or undone, a curse that would continue to menace from beyond the grave.

 _The play would go on, but as a solo act._

 _He was on his own now. As it should be._

Bruce leaned back in his chair, tracking the mobile's image on the screen until it receded from view. He stood up and slouched towards the glass coffins where skeletons loomed on display, serving as sordid testament and tribute – souvenirs of a war those soldiers should have never fought. Hopefully, they would remain locked away in the closet for good.

 _This was his cross to bear, and no one else's._

–

It takes a while for Tim to adjust to independence. He's handled himself on his own before (not to mention housekeeping knowledge is no longer a concern), but the solitude is much more acute this time. The difference at least is that he wouldn't have to rely on certain survival tactics he swore he'd never resort to again. Bruce – Mr. Wayne took care of everything as he said. While Tim refused to accept any more, there's just enough to cover his starting expenses, and Grayson had graciously offered him use of the loft as a temporary place to crash until he figured out his next step. (Not like the previous tenant was coming back to it anyway. Why he didn't just sell the place if he was so staunch in burying bygones over the hatchet seemed a mystery to Tim. But then, he supposed it was the same reason he couldn't bring himself to dispose of the Batarang, though there were many times he came close to tossing it away. …As by design, one way or another it kept doubling back to his hands – if not the other way around.)

Eventually he settles into the rhythm of regularity. He diligently attends classes, graduates, goes to college. Studies technology and engineering (because as much as he wouldn't admit it to himself, the gadgets were always one of his favorite parts of the job). He finds meaning in the mundane and makes the most of it.

Looking towards the future but not where he's going, he bumps into a pretty blonde girl whose sunniness matches her hair, which smells sweetly of hope and lavender. Love instantly hits him like a brick, destroying his defenses. She's a whirlwind of energy and optimism, shining through the tempest and making him feel safe. Bit by bit, he opens his wounded chest to her, spilling emotions everywhere in a jumbled wreck. She helps pick up the shattered pieces, understanding because she's seen and suffered – survived – painful sacrifices of her own, hiding shame and insecurity behind tenacity. Her stubbornness becomes his strength, and even though the voices are still _there_ they sound smaller in her company. She spoils him tremendously, and he doesn't mind to be saved by her smothering kindness.

" _It's called 'happiness'."_

It's not the first time he's felt this way, or something akin to it. There was a girl once he… hard to say "liked" at an age when he barely knew what to do with a member of the opposite sex – let alone himself around one. Perhaps it was more accurate to say he was "attracted" to her because he could identify with her plight: born from filth, unable to escape her father's shadow… All too literally in her case. She died trying to protect him, even though he was supposed to be the "hero"...

The marriage proposal comes as no surprise, but Tim shocks Barbara by begging her to teach him how to slow dance for the wedding. Dick readily agrees to be best man, and even attempts to somewhat reconcile with Barb at the reception, congratulating the new Commissioner and her husband on promotion to District Attorney. As for Bruce, well… He doesn't show or bother replying to the invitation (although Alfred sends his sincerest regards), but something tells Tim he's watching somewhere. …That old training never _does_ go away.

Years later, when he's formally acquainted with McGinnis (beyond locking fists through fits of madness), Tim quietly recognizes in him another kindred spirit: a troubled teen trying to make amends for his past misdeeds. He's more than grateful to Terry for everything he's done, and maybe a little envious that the lad accomplished what he could not. While it's too late for regrets, he doesn't begrudge another achieving fulfillment through the fantasy he once entertained, a dream he himself failed to live up to. Even though his own life had been a nightmare in many ways, it's over now thanks to the true heir and honor to the cowl.

Besides, when he finally coaxes the old bat to come out of the cave so he can introduce his new family, it's worth it to behold the dumbfounded look on Bruce's face when his youngest daughter Annie greets "grandpa" with a hug. Though there was never any doubt, seeing the brightness reflected in both their expressions is enough to convince Tim that he made the right choice. He wouldn't trade this outcome for the world.

 _A man in a mask once told him: "Sometimes there are no happy endings."_

Sometimes you just have to make your own.


End file.
